Page 30 of His to Control

I catch his wrist before he can make contact. “Touch me again, and you’ll leave with fewer fingers than you arrived with.”

He jerks back, but his eyes burn with desperate fury. “You work for me.”

“I work for whoever I choose.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “And right now, you’re making a compelling case for why that shouldn’t be you. Ever again.”

“You’re just another hired gun,” he snarls. “A glorified clean-up boy playing at power.”

“And yet here you are, begging for my help.” I circle my desk slowly.

I pause, my hand hovering over the intercom to call security. Something’s wrong. In the decade I’ve known Ano Montoni, I’ve never seen him lose control like this. He’s always been calculated and cold—a shark in designer suits who strikes with precision. This desperate man before me is something else entirely.

“Sit down.” My command cuts through his rage.

He blinks, thrown off by the sudden shift. Good. I need him unbalanced.

“I said sit.”

He complies, though his jaw remains tight. I study him with fresh eyes, noting details I missed before. His collar is slightly askew. The knot of his tie shows signs of nervous adjustment. His right shoe has a scuff mark—Ano, who changes shoes if they get so much as a water spot.

I lean back in my chair, studying Ano’s unraveling composure. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

“A journalist.” His fingers drum against my desk. “She’s been investigating my shipping operations.”

“Journalists investigate businesses all the time.” I keep my voice neutral, even as my pulse quickens. “What makes this one different?”

Ano’s laugh holds no humor. “This one’s gotten too close. Found things she shouldn’t have.” He pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead. “I need her stopped.”

“Stopped how?”

“Whatever it takes.” His eyes meet mine, cold and empty. “I’m prepared to pay seven figures.”

The casual way he discusses murder makes my stomach turn. I maintain my mask of indifference, though my fingers press harder into the leather armrests.

“This journalist must have found something significant.”

“She’s tracking shipment manifestos, offshore accounts.” Ano waves his hand dismissively. “Following paper trails that need to disappear. Along with her.”

“And her name?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“Liv Consoli.”

I don’t flinch, don’t react, even as pieces click into place. Eve’s investigation, her fear, the break-in at her apartment—all connected to the man sitting across from me.

“If you don’t handle it, I’ll find someone who will.” Ano reaches into his jacket. “My contacts in Eastern Europe are more… amenable to this type of work.”

“The shipping manifests,” I interrupt, needing to confirm my suspicions. “What exactly are you moving?”

His smile turns cruel. “Let’s just say some cargo is more valuable than others. Especially when it breathes.”

The implication hits me like a physical blow. Human trafficking. My chest tightens with disgust, but I keep my expression impassive.

I’ve crossed many lines in my career. Murder, extortion, blackmail—necessary evils in my world. But trafficking? My stomach churns at the thought of what Ano’s “cargo” endures.

“Human trafficking is a different game entirely,” I say, keeping my tone neutral despite the rage building in my chest. “The risks are exponentially higher.”

Ano leans forward, desperation bleeding through his polished veneer. “Name your price. Ten million. Cash, offshore accounts, however you want it.”

I stand, walking to the window. Liv is not far in my penthouse, probably working on the very evidence that has Ano sweating through his designer suit. The irony would be amusing if the stakes weren’t so high.